


Oh, Beauregard, You Are My Friend

by WisteriaTeeth



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Mollymauk Tealeaf, Character Study, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Near Death, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WisteriaTeeth/pseuds/WisteriaTeeth
Summary: "So, who were you talking to? Nott, with that little cantrip the two of you, y'know?"She makes conversation as if she had not been cut down before Caleb a mere half day earlier.





	Oh, Beauregard, You Are My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> short thing since its been so long since ive last written! hopefully getting something longer or more put together than this done soon tho!!! im also @wickertoash on tumblr if u want to send requests or prompts or anything

There is blood on his hands.

It's dark and flakes like rust, catching the fire light just so that it seems embers have burnt out onto his palms. A familiar sight.

Caleb squeezes his fists shut until his nails have dug into his skin and then he squeezes some more. His jaw locks up. He grits his teeth and forces a heavy breath past. _Come on now, Widogast_ , he thinks, _you are not so easily shaken. Beauregard is fine. She is always fine, Jester and Caduceus always heal everyone. They are the clerics, after all._

 _Mollymauk wasn't fine_ , a traitorous voice threaded in shadow hisses at the back of his skull. _He was fine until he got a glaive stabbed through his chest and into his heart and now he is dead and missing all these great, wonderful things and these great, wonderful people and--_

"Shut up," Caleb mumbles under his breath. Digs a little deeper until blood breaks.

"Who the fuck are you talking to?"

He starts and soot prickles around his fingertips but vanishes just as quickly. Of course, it's just Beauregard.

Just Beauregard.

She stands there with Frumpkin happily slung over her shoulder, tail dancing over her nose now and then. Hours and hours, and she still hasn't rinsed the blood from her freshly healed nose. Or her freshly healed torso.

Well, not like he can say so much on the matter.

"You went deaf or somethin'?" The toe of her shoe prods his arm.

He shakes his head, "Ah, no, no. Sorry, I was lost in thought."

Beau snorts and parks herself right beside him. "You do that a lot."

He doesn't miss the clench of her jaw or the flex of a fist as she adjusts. It reminds him to loosen his own. Stale, lifeless air stings hot, red blood. Ah.

"So, who were you talking to? Nott, with that little cantrip the two of you, y'know?"

She makes conversation as if she had not been cut down before Caleb a mere half day earlier.

"No. Just myself, um, nothing really. What about you? What are you doing up so late when it is not your turn for watch tonight?"

As he's speaking, Beau does something that surprises him, catches his last word into fading silence; she lies down with her head in his lap and simply stays. It's awkward, forced casual faux, and she's obviously stiff and high strung. But here is Beauregard, huddled with him beneath the careless stars as if she trusted him to support her broken (still sore and bruised and bloody) body. And maybe she does.

Frumpkin curls up on her chest.

"Couldn't sleep. Decided if I'm gonna be up I might as well talk to someone."

"That makes sense, ja. Anything in particular you'd wish to discuss?"

"Nah. I'm just gonna, uh, lay here if that's cool with you."

"Oh. Sure."

Minutes stretch on and on and on with the moon. Caleb's fingers are warm and tangled in Frumpkin's fur. He's quiet and content.

Beau twitches. Her foot slides against the dirt. She heaves a great big sigh. Still for hardly five minute, and she's already restless. Classic Beau.

Caleb smiles.

"What're you smiling at, asshole?"

She's smiling too and he huffs something like laughter. "You are like a moving sack of potatoes over my legs, _arschloch_."

" _Arschloch_? That Zemnian for asshole?" Her too quick Cobalt tongue butchers his pretty language atrociously. His brow furrows and she snickers. "Fuck yeah I knew it was. I'm gonna start saying it to Fjord, like, 'Hey, hey _arschloch_!' That's all I got for now but I'm definitely going to use that in the right situation. Yeah."

"Please, for the love of the Gods its--here, listen to me."

Caleb isn't quite certain why he repeats it, slowly, over half a dozen times before Beau can even somewhat match his inflection. He isn't sure why he cannot help but laugh, soft as falling ash, along with her. Why he doesn't mind the steady and constant weight against his legs that should feel pinned and trapped when he's sure he's as safe as he's ever been instead.

He supposes, thinking too loud thoughts to himself as she snores away later, that it's because she's his friend. That despite the death of Mollymauk Tealeaf (long may he reign), he trusts that they will all not allow that to happen again.

Sometimes the fire in Beauregard's eyes scares him, because it reminds him so much of his younger self. Over a decade ago, really. So ambitious, head held high and chin held strong, so certain, so invincible.

He broke into a thousand tiny, tiny, crushed pieces, shattered into glass dust and scattered in the soulless white rooms of the asylum. 

But Beau is stronger than him. Smarter, too, in some ways. Asking Fjord to watch her, telling him they were keeping one anothers asses in check, distrusting authority and snarling against binds. She is steel braided into bone and knuckles that have split dragon flesh; but she is always, always the hand in his when his blind. When he is vulnerable.

If that is not friendship, Caleb Widogast will eat his right hand and cat whole.

He sighs. "Oh, Beauregard." Bruised plum still ghosts the tender skin of her left eye. Pins and needles stick his legs. The blood from his palms has long dried by now. He threads thin, stained fingers through her hair. It's greasy and unwashed. It's relaxing anyways, as if Frumpkin had been slicked in oil and left out in the frizzing heat for days.

Funny how Beauregard can make him smile even when she is just asleep.

"We are friends, yes? I think so. I should thank you anyways, maybe. Maybe...maybe one day."

"Shut up, _arschloch_." She rolls over and sticks her face right against his stomach. He blinks. "I'm trying to sleep."

He doesn't miss the curve of a familiar smile tugging her scabbed lips, though. His teeth show when he laughs this time.

"Sorry. Good night, Beauregard."

"G'night, Cay."

**Author's Note:**

> I just love them and think they're good friends okay they love and care about each other they're BFFS


End file.
